A few days have blurred together in a haze of lust and submission. The livestreams happened—two, maybe three. They were a frantic, sweating blur of webcams, filthy commands typed in chat, and the dizzying rush of exposure. The money, the virtual gifts… it felt unreal. As unreal as the text that came yesterday: "sweetie,Rent's covered for six months. Consider it an engagement gift."
The gesture should have warmed me. Instead, a cold little spike of something—anger? frustration?—lodged itself in my chest. It felt like payment. And the days since have been quiet. Just small, terse commands. "Be ready at seven." "Wear the black." He's been busy, distant. The possessive, adoring man who proposed in a forest feels like a ghost. I'm pacing my living room, my heavy tits bouncing with each agitated step, when I hear it.
A shout. Next door. Through the wall.
Mr. Callahan's voice, strained and sharp, not the low, controlled rumble I know. "…don't give a damn about your excuses! You get your ass back here. Tonight. Do you understand me?"
A pause. Muffled, younger male tones arguing back.
My ear is practically against the plaster. He has a son? Away for studies? I didn't know. The thought is jarring.
The shouting stops. A door slams. Footsteps approach my door. I scramble back, but not fast enough. My own door swings open just as I'm trying to shut it, and I catch a flash of him in the hallway, phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip, his face a mask of tense fury. Our eyes meet for a split second. His gaze sharpens, seeing me there, eavesdropping. I slam my door shut, the sound loud and final in the quiet hall.
Shit.
My phone buzzes in my hand instantly.
Stalking me, sweetie?
My cheeks burn. I type back, fingers clumsy. No. You were loud. I thought there might be an issue.
Oh, looking out for your fiancé, huh? comes the reply.
The word 'fiancé' sends a ridiculous, girlish flutter through my stomach. I know it's a play. A nasty, beautiful, roleplay fantasy. But my stupid heart doesn't care. It leaps. I want to unravel this. I want the man who growled about marriage back.
I wait, holding my breath. Another text.
Don't bath, sweetie. Let me join you today. I'll be back in an hour. Fill the tub. Make it nice and deep.
The command is clear, but the tone… it's still there, that edge. It's not a request. It's a demand from a man who needs to reclaim control. I obey. I go to the bathroom, start the water, pouring in a capful of vanilla-scented bubbles. The steam rises, fogging the mirror. I watch my blurred, plump reflection, my nipples already hard points against the thin cotton of my t-shirt.
Needing air, I walk to the balcony, leaning on the railing. The evening is cool. A car pulls into a parking spot below. He gets out, and with him, a younger man.
His son.
He's tall, broad-shouldered like his father, but where Mr. Callahan is solid and weathered, this man is all sharp, youthful angles. Muscles ripple under his t-shirt as he grabs a duffel bag from the trunk. He runs a hand through dark, messy hair, his posture rigid, annoyed. They don't speak. They walk toward the building entrance, a wall of silent tension between them.
My phone buzzes again, pulling my gaze from the window.
Five minutes. Welcome me in your micro bikini. Don't make me ask twice.
The flutter in my stomach turns into a full-blown, aching throb between my legs. I hurry to my bedroom, stripping off my clothes. The micro bikini is a scrap of black fabric. The top is two small triangles that barely contain the swell of my breasts, the strings tying behind my neck and back. The bottoms are a matching triangle, the sides mere strings. I slip it on, the fabric doing nothing to hide the dark shadow of my areolas or the plump curve of my pubic mound. I throw a thin, silky robe over it, the belt tied loosely.
The doorbell rings precisely five minutes later.
I take a breath, smooth the robe, and open the door.
He's there. Changed. The anger is gone from his face, replaced by a focused, hungry calm. He's holding a small paper bag. "Hello, sweetie," he says, his voice smooth as honey, sweet as poison.
"Hi," I whisper, blushing furiously.
He steps in, closes the door with a soft click, and turns the lock. The sound is final. He sets the bag down by the door. His eyes never leave mine as he walks toward me, backing me up against the wall. He doesn't speak. He just cups my face and kisses me.
It's not a gentle kiss. It's aggressive, claiming. His tongue plunges into my mouth, a dominant, sweeping invasion. His hands slide down to my hips, gripping hard through the robe. He pulls back, breathing heavily against my lips.
"Such a good little fiancée," he rasps, his voice thick with a dark pride. "Waiting for her man. Dressed like a fucking present." His hands go to the belt of my robe, yanking it open. The silky fabric falls away, pooling at my feet. His eyes rake over the tiny bikini, his gaze like a physical touch. He leans in, his nose brushing the side of my neck. He inhales deeply. "Mmm. You smell like vanilla. And under it… that musky, sweet smell of a girl who's been thinking dirty thoughts all day. My smell."
I whimper, my head falling back against the wall. His mouth finds my neck, sucking a mark into the sensitive skin just below my ear. His hands come up to my tits, palming them roughly over the flimsy black fabric. My nipples are hard, pressing visibly against the material. He pinches them through the fabric, making me gasp. "These perfect fucking tits," he growls. "Always so ready for me." He kisses me again, deep and dirty, his tongue fucking my mouth. "Let's go get you clean, you filthy girl."
He takes my hand, leading me toward the bathroom. In the bedroom, he lets go of me and starts to undress, his movements efficient. His shirt comes off, revealing his solid, hairy chest. His pants and boxers follow. He's already half-hard, his cock thick and heavy against his thigh. Naked, he is all power and possessiveness.
He comes to me, wraps his arms around me from behind, his hands immediately finding my breasts. He gropes them, squeezing the full, heavy weight, his thumbs rubbing my nipples through the bikini top. He kisses the side of my neck, his stubble scratching. "I missed this," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble in my ear. "I missed you."
Then, without warning, he spins me and pushes me backwards onto the bed. I land with a soft bounce, my tits jiggling. He's on me in an instant, pushing my thighs apart with his knees. He looks down at the tiny black triangle between my legs. With a blunt finger, he smacks my clothed, swollen clit.
The sharp, sudden sting makes me cry out, my back arching.
"Look at this nasty hole," he says, his voice dripping with a filthy kind of worship. "All puffy and begging for attention through this little piece of nothing." He hooks his fingers into the sides of the bikini bottoms and pulls them down my legs, tossing them aside. My pussy is fully exposed, my meaty outer lips already slick and parted, my inner lips dark and glistening, peeking out. My clit is a swollen, throbbing pearl. He groans, the sound raw. "Fuck, sweetie. Let me taste it. Just one time before your bath. I need my mouth on you."
He doesn't wait. He pushes my legs wider, bends his head, and buries his face between my thighs.
The first contact is his hot breath washing over my soaked folds. He inhales, deep and loud. "God, you smell like heaven," he mutters, his voice muffled against my flesh. "Like my perfect, dirty girl." Then his tongue is on me, not teasing, but devouring.
He french kisses my cunt, his tongue plunging deep into my hole, fucking in and out in messy, passionate strokes. He sucks my inner lips into his mouth, tugging on them, his tongue lashing my clit with frantic, rough circles. I'm moaning, my hands fisting in the sheets, my hips lifting off the bed to meet his mouth. He reaches up and smacks my ass, a sharp, stinging crack that makes the fleshy cheek jiggle. "Stay still," he grunts against me, and then goes back to eating me with a ferocious hunger.
His tongue is everywhere—dipping inside, circling my entrance, flicking my clit until I'm sobbing. He pauses to suck a dark, possessive hickey on the soft skin of my inner thigh. "Mine," he breathes against the wet mark, before diving back in. He slides two fingers into my sopping hole, curling them, finding that spot inside that makes me see white. He finger-fucks me hard and deep while his mouth latches onto my clit, sucking it like a tiny, sweet piece of candy.
The orgasm crashes over me without warning, a violent, pulsing wave that makes my whole body convulse. I scream, my cunt gushing around his fingers, my juices coating his chin. He drinks it down, lapping and slurping, not letting up for a second.
"That's it," he pants, lifting his head. His lips are slick, his eyes black with lust. "Come all over my face, you perfect slut." He spanks my ass again, harder this time, the sound echoing in the room. The impact sends a ripple through the soft flesh, a hot, pleasurable pain that mixes with the unbearable sensitivity between my legs. He kisses my thighs, my stomach, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses everywhere. "You're so fucking wet for me. So fucking responsive. My good girl."
He sits back on his haunches, looking down at me, sprawled and panting on the bed. "Let's set the mood, sweetie," he says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial, nasty whisper. "A proper bath for my bride-to-be."
He gets up, his cock bobbing, fully hard now. He walks out of the bedroom, completely naked, moving through my apartment with the casual ownership of a man who lives here. The sight of him—his strong back, the shift of muscle in his legs, the faint dusting of grey hair on his chest—makes my cunt ache with a fresh, needy throb.
He comes back with the paper bag. From it, he pulls a small bag of rose petals and a lavender-scented bath bomb. He goes into the bathroom, and I hear the water stop, then the soft plop of the bath bomb hitting the water, the fizz as it dissolves. He comes back to the doorway. "Light the candles around the tub. Now."
I push myself up on shaky legs and pad into the bathroom. He's turned off the main light. The room is lit only by the soft glow from the hallway and the flickering flames of a dozen candles he's already placed on the vanity, the toilet tank, the edge of the tub. The air is steamy and smells of lavender and vanilla. Rose petals float on the surface of the deep, bubbling water.
He's behind me suddenly, his naked body pressing against my back. His hands come around to untie my bikini top. The strings fall loose, and the tiny triangles of fabric drop away. My heavy tits swing free. His rough palms cover them, squeezing, kneading. "So perfect," he murmurs into my hair. He turns me around and kisses me, a deep, slow, passionate kiss that tastes of me and him and promises. His hands slide down to my ass, grabbing two handfuls of soft flesh, lifting me slightly. I wrap my legs around his waist, feeling his hard cock press against my wet stomach.
He carries me like that to the walk-in shower, turning it on. The water is already warm. He sets me down under the spray, the water immediately plastering my hair to my head, running in rivulets down between my breasts, over my belly. He steps in with me, pulling the glass door shut.
Steam fills the enclosure. He backs me against the cool tile, his body hot and solid against mine. He kisses me again, his tongue exploring my mouth with a slow, thorough passion that steals my breath. One hand grips my ass, pulling me tight against his groin. The other finds my breast, his thumb rubbing my wet, hard nipple in rough circles. I moan into his mouth, my own hands sliding over the wet planes of his back.
He reaches for my body wash and a soft loofah. He squirts the gel onto the sponge, and then his hands are on me, washing me. But it's not just washing. It's a worship. He lathers the soap over my shoulders, down my arms, paying special attention to my underarms, making me raise my arms. He soaps my breasts, his hands sliding over the heavy, slippery curves, circling my nipples until they're pebbled tight and aching. The loofah travels down my stomach, over the swell of my belly, and then he's kneeling before me.
"Spread your legs, sweetie," he says, his voice husky.
I do, blushing under the spray. He washes my thighs, the loofah sliding over the soft, inner skin. He moves to my pussy, his touch firm but not rough. He washes my outer lips, the suds mixing with my own slickness, running down my thighs. He parts my folds with his fingers, cleaning me there with the soft sponge, the gentle friction against my oversensitive clit making me gasp and sway. He looks up at me, his eyes dark. "So clean and dirty at the same time," he muses, before rinsing me thoroughly with a handheld sprayer, the warm water blasting directly on my tender flesh.
He stands, turning off the water. "My turn," he says. He hands me the loofah and the body wash. "Clean me. Everywhere."
My hands are trembling as I squirt gel onto the sponge. I start with his chest, washing the coarse hair, the solid muscle underneath. I move to his arms, his back. I kneel on the wet shower floor, the tiles cool against my knees. I soap his legs, his strong calves. And then I'm facing his cock. It stands thick and proud, veined and heavy. I look up at him, my question clear in my eyes.
He nods, his jaw tight. "Do it."
I lather the loofah and gently wash his shaft, my other hand cupping his balls, soaping the coarse hair there. I'm meticulous, reverent. When I'm done rinsing him, my hands are slick with soap and water. I look up again.
"Now kiss it," he commands, his voice a low thrum. "Kiss your fiancé's cock clean."
I blush a fiery red, but I lean forward. I press my lips to the tip, a soft, closed-mouth kiss. The skin is velvety smooth under my lips.
"Use your tongue, sweetie. Show it some love."
I open my mouth, letting my tongue dart out to lick the drop of pre-cum beading at the slit. Salty. Musky. Him. I swirl my tongue around the broad head, then take him into my mouth. I don't deep-throat him, not yet. I suck gently, my tongue lapping at the underside, cleaning him with my mouth. His groan echoes in the tiled shower. One of his hands comes to rest on top of my head, not forcing, just guiding.
"Fuck, that's good," he rasps. "Such a pretty mouth on my cock. Look at me."
I tilt my head up, meeting his gaze as I suck. His eyes are hooded, burning with lust. Seeing him watch me, seeing the raw need on his face, sends a fresh flood of wetness between my own legs. I bob my head, taking him deeper, my lips stretching around his girth. I hollow my cheeks, sucking hard.
"Yeah, just like that," he grunts, his hips giving a tiny thrust. "Suck it like the good little cocksucker you are. Get it nice and wet for your cunt."
The dirty words, the ownership in them, make me moan around him, the vibration making him curse. His grip in my hair tightens. I can feel him getting harder, thicker in my mouth. His breaths come faster.
"Gonna feed you, sweetie," he warns, his voice strained. "You're gonna drink every drop. For your fiancé."
He pulls my head down firmly onto him, fucking my mouth in short, sharp thrusts. I relax my throat, letting him use me, my tongue working frantically. With a guttural groan, he spills into my mouth. The taste is strong, salty, utterly his. I swallow reflexively, again and again, until he's finished, until he softens slightly and pulls out.
He looks down at me, his cock glistening with my saliva. He rubs the slick head over my cheeks, my lips, painting my face with the mixture of spit and his release. "Now lick it clean," he orders, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Get it all."I lean forward, my tongue lapping up the mess from my own skin, then cleaning his shaft with long, worshiping strokes until he's spotless.
He takes my hand, leading me to the bathtub. The water is still warm, the lavender scent soothing. The rose petals swirl on the surface. He gets in first, sitting with his back against the rounded end, the water coming up to his chest. He spreads his legs. "Come here, sweetie," he says, his voice a dark, delicious command. "Sit on my lap. Facing me."
My heart hammers. standing naked before him, steam rising from my skin. I step into the fragrant water and slowly lower myself, straddling his thighs, facing him. The water is buoyant, warm. My knees sink into the soft padding on either side of his hips. My heavy, water-slick breasts bob just above the surface, my nipples brushing against the coarse hair on his chest. Our bodies are close, intimate. He's already hardening again against my inner thigh.
He smiles, a slow smile. All the tension from earlier is gone, washed away. Here, in the candlelight, in the warm water, with my body on his, he's just mine. And I'm just his.
"There's my good girl," he murmurs, his hands coming to rest on the soft curve of my waist. His thumbs stroke the sensitive skin just above my hip bones. "My perfect, plump fiancée." He leans forward, his lips finding mine in lingering kiss. When he pulls back, his eyes are dark with a promise. "Now… let's get you properly dirty again." he whispers....